


The Greatest Wonder of Them All

by Miss M (missm)



Series: The World Beyond [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Established Relationship, Feelings, Haircuts, M/M, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:18:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was no stranger to this; he usually cut his own hair, with the aid of two mirrors and a rather clunky pair of scissors. Cutting Valjean's hair should be easy in comparison. And yet he felt, vaguely, that this was something that demanded the greatest effort and care; that more than a mere favour, it was a chance for his pitiful soul to come forth and prove itself gentle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Wonder of Them All

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the same 'verse as [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1031871/chapters/2055834), but can be read on its own. Thank you so much to Stripy for beta-reading.

In early April, Valjean moved back to the Rue Plumet. Javert had not suggested it, though he had often entertained the thought that the secluded house must be a more comfortable place to live than the small, cramped rooms at the Rue de l'Homme-Armé. Presumably Cosette thought likewise, for it soon became clear that it had not been Valjean's own idea to move back.  
  
"She misses the house," Valjean told him as he showed it to Javert for the first time, the two of them walking slowly through empty rooms where dust had been gathering for months. "And the garden. It used to be all hers, a country of her own. She could spend hours there."  
  
It looked less like a garden than a tropical forest to Javert. He supposed it was the sort of thing a child might enjoy. "And now?" he asked. "What will you do with it?"  
  
A flash of wistfulness passed over Valjean's face. "Keep it as it is," he said. "For when she comes to visit. They have promised to do that, you know. The house is there for them to stay in." Toussaint the housekeeper had come with him; she would stay in her old room and make his meals and do whatever else she normally did with her days. "She'll make sure the house is always ready for Cosette and Marius," Valjean said.  
  
When Javert realised Valjean did not intend to move into the house himself, but instead stay in the little shack in the back garden, he could not refrain from protesting. But on this Valjean was firm: the shack was where he had lived, it was his. Cosette and her husband would want the space to themselves when they came to visit, and in time, well, there would probably be children.  Javert, sensing that further nagging would be futile, inspected the shack and found it acceptable, though he insisted Valjean should replace some of the furniture -- the bed, for instance, was far too narrow and creaky. He felt himself flush saying this, though it was obviously the truth. At least Valjean agreed, not without colouring a bit himself.  
  
A couple of weeks after the move, a late Saturday afternoon when the air was fair and the sky light, Javert came to the Rue Plumet to find the shack empty. He thought of going to the main house to see if Valjean was there, but instinct told him to look in the garden first. Sure enough, Valjean was there, sitting on a stone bench not far from the gate, looking at a sheet of paper in his hands. When Javert approached, he looked up and gave him one of his tiny smiles, one of those little quirks of his lips that always tugged at Javert's heart. "Javert," he said.  
  
Javert sat down next to him and touched his knee by way of greeting. "What do you have there?"  
  
"This?" Valjean glanced down. "It's from Cosette. She wants me to come for dinner with all of them tomorrow. You too, if you aren't otherwise occupied."  
  
"Ah." Javert wasn't too thrilled at the prospect; both old Monsieur Gillenormand and his daughter got on his nerves at the best of times. Still, he did not particularly want to offend Valjean's family-in-law, and he had already escaped enough invitations through vague excuses that he ought to accept this one. "Well, do you want me to come with you?"  
  
"I'm not sure if I will go," Valjean said quietly, looking away.  
  
"No?" Javert said, puzzled. "Why not?"  
  
Valjean grimaced slightly. "I shouldn't bother them all the time."  
  
"Bother them? She invited you!" Javert shook his head, exasperated. "Besides, you haven't been to call on the Gillenormands for a long time. Not for many weeks, I'll wager."  
  
Valjean said nothing. Javert sighed. He hesitated for a moment, then put his hand on Valjean's knee again.  
  
"Out with it," he said, making his voice as gentle as he could. "What's wrong?"  
  
He was beginning to think he would not get an answer when at last Valjean heaved a sigh in turn. "I don't want to embarrass her. My hair is getting too long. It hasn't been cut since she left. I look like a ragamuffin."  
  
The mental image of Valjean as a gamin from the street caught Javert unawares. He managed to suppress his laughter at the last second, then eyed Valjean's hair critically. Certainly, it was longer than it had been, falling over his collar to the point where it almost touched his shoulder, but it was not unbecoming -- though Javert, smitten fool that he was, admitted readily to himself that he would have a hard time finding any sort of hairlength unbecoming on Valjean. He liked Valjean's hair, its scent and softness, and the current length made it easy to slide his fingers through it. Something told him that this was not what Valjean wanted to hear at the moment, however.  
  
"Nothing worse?" he said, trying to make light of it. "I'm sure we could find a decent barber. Not in time for tomorrow, of course, but later this week..."  
  
Valjean looked away again, and Javert trailed off. Of course Valjean would be able to find a barber if he wanted to. That was not the problem.  
  
What had he said? His hair had not been cut since Cosette's marriage. And why not? Javert glanced at the letter in Valjean's hands, the faraway look on his face, and frowned as something dawned on him: Valjean's daughter, his light and joy, had been the one to cut his hair. It had been something personal between them, something meaningful. Of course no ordinary barber would do.  
  
Javert considered the matter. He knew Cosette would not mind cutting her father's hair again, married or not, but he also sensed that Valjean would never ask for it, and might not even want it. Most likely it was not the act itself he missed, but what it symbolised: the closeness between the two of them, two strangers who had become family. And yet again, Javert found himself confounded by the question of what he himself was to do when faced with Valjean's loss -- for a loss it was, no matter how happily everything had turned out, and he would not delude himself otherwise.  
  
He knew well enough that although Valjean was everything to him, he was not everything to Valjean. This, however, was something he rarely contemplated, simply because it was of no consequence to him; he could not find it in himself to begrudge that child Valjean's love, when she had been his only hope and solace for so many years. Nor could he begrudge Valjean hers, more than he could begrudge him anything. Valjean could never be loved enough.  
  
But the melancholy that seemed to have struck Valjean tonight, as he gazed at the garden with a distant look in his eyes, did bother Javert. In his mind he ran through a list of possible things to do and say, and they all seemed inadequate, for he was still not quite certain what the trouble was, and he was not certain he was able to understand it. If Valjean missed his daughter's presence, very well; it must be strange not to see her every day. If it was the mere memory of the haircuts making him sentimental, then fair enough. Javert was not particularly given to nostalgia himself, having no particular reason to look back on his past life with fondness, but he understood it was not an uncommon feeling.  
  
And yet, by all accounts, Valjean should have no reason to grieve. This newest invitation wasn't the first by any means, for the young couple had been adamant in their demand for Valjean's company. As soon as he was well enough, Cosette had told her husband who had saved him from the barricades. Javert had been there on the day when Baron Pontmercy first came to call at the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, a pale young man stammering his expressions of gratitude and reverence. Cosette had been flushing with pleasure and Valjean with embarrassment, his feeble protests passionately swept aside by the youth. Javert could not deny to himself that he had found the scene rather satisfying.  
  
No, even if Valjean missed the years he had spent alone with his daughter, he still did not have any cause to think she loved him less, Javert thought. And the haircut seemed like a nonsensical thing to worry about, anyway. What would anyone care? But if it really troubled Valjean...  
  
Before he could think better of it, he said "Let me do it, then."  
  
For a long moment, Valjean was silent, and Javert suddenly and intensely knew himself to be out of bounds. In the silence the echo of his suggestion almost felt invasive, as if he had stepped into a territory that was too intimate for his presence to be wanted, and this should be a ridiculous notion, for they had done far more intimate things together by now. But somehow the thought of his large hands in Valjean's hair, performing the duty that had always been assumed by the beloved child, seemed absurd, almost grotesque.  
  
The apology lay ready on his tongue when Valjean turned to him, his eyes still melancholy but his mouth slightly curved in a surprised smile. "Would you do that for me?"  
  
"Would I..." Javert's mind took a second to catch up with his mouth. He closed his eyes, shaking his head. "What a question," he muttered. As if there was anything in the world he would not do.  
  
  
~  
  
  
He found a chair and placed it slightly out of the elm tree's shadows, where the evening light was bright enough for him to see, whilst Valjean fetched a towel, a comb, and a pair of scissors. They did not speak, a curious awkwardness between them as Valjean sat down and Javert folded the towel around his shoulders. Rather than too intimate, it felt too much the opposite, as if they were playing at barber and client. Firmly pushing his embarrassment aside, Javert picked up the comb.  
  
Valjean's hair was soft and smooth, and Javert stroked his fingertips over it for several long seconds, admiring the white against his skin, resisting the impulse to bend down and nuzzle it. There was a solemnity to the moment that such an ordinary activity did not seem to warrant, and Javert was well aware that he was nervous, though there was no outward reason why he should be. He was no stranger to this; he usually cut his own hair, with the aid of two mirrors and a rather clunky pair of scissors. Cutting Valjean's hair should be easy in comparison. And yet he felt, vaguely, that this was something that demanded the greatest effort and care; that more than a mere favour, it was a chance for his pitiful soul to come forth and prove itself gentle.  
  
Almost reluctantly he put the comb to the white locks, parted them with care, dragging the comb through silky strands as slowly as he could. Valjean sat still, abiding Javert's tentative fingers in silence, back straight and unmoving, but as Javert carefully started easing out the small tangles, he thought he could feel Valjean gradually relaxing under his touch, some of the tightly wound tension going out of him. For long moments Javert let himself follow the path of the comb with his fingers, carding them through Valjean's soft hair, enjoying the feel of it.  
  
On an impulse, he touched Valjean's temples with both hands, massaging gently, before running them up Valjean's scalp. Valjean let out a sigh that didn't sound entirely voluntary, tipping his head back into Javert's hands ever so slightly, a surprisingly sensual display of trust. Javert had to remind himself that there was work to be done.  
  
He placed his hand on the back of Valjean's head, taking care to do so gently. "Lean forward a bit."  
  
As Valjean obeyed, Javert shuddered at a sudden memory -- himself, years ago, wearing a guardsman's uniform and holding a razor in his hand -- head upon head bowed before him, broken or defiant, youthful or grey with age. All convicts had to have their heads shaved. He had thought no more of it than a farmer would think of shearing sheep. Nor had he thought of it for years. And Valjean -- did Valjean remember?  
  
Swallowing down the bile, he gripped the pair of scissors in his right hand and the comb in his left, deciding to start at the back of Valjean's neck, where the damage would be the least visible if he slipped. He gathered a combful of hair and opened the scissors around it, hesitating still, unable to free himself from the feeling that he risked violating Valjean's body somehow. The faint memory of a Biblical story came to him, of a man whose strength was in his hair -- he shuddered again, before snapping the scissors together resolutely.  
  
A lock fell to the ground, white against the dark green of the grass. Valjean did not stir. Nothing happened, and after a moment Javert, steeling himself, went on.  
  
As he neatly scissored the fine strands curling over Valjean's collar, he realised he hadn't thought to ask how Valjean wanted it, and of course Valjean had given him no directions. A little over the collar must be acceptable, Javert decided. Valjean liked taking off his collar and cravat in the evening sometimes, leaving his neck bare and distracting, and Javert liked watching him do it. Surely he could be forgiven for wanting to expose Valjean's neck as much as possible. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the thought of his lips on the sensitive skin behind Valjean's ears, but only a moment. First the task, and then -- perhaps -- the reward; in that respect, at least, he knew himself unchanged.  
  
After finishing at Valjean's neck, he started working his way forwards, careful not to touch his ears. Lock after white lock fell, onto Valjean's shoulders and from there to the ground. Valjean himself was silent, his eyes closed, and Javert tried not to wonder what he was thinking, whether he was still lost in the past, in the days when young smooth hands, rather than large coarse ones, had touched his hair -- days of secrets and loneliness but also, it seemed, peace.  
  
Javert could not give him that time back, even if he had wanted to. Javert had only himself to give, his hesitant touch, his roughness, and nothing more. Pretending otherwise was futile as well as dishonest, and he would not be dishonest with Valjean. But maybe it would have been better just to make Valjean go to the barber, he thought ruefully, running a forelock through his fingers. Less intimate, less fraught, though the thought of a stranger touching Valjean did not feel right either. At some point, however, before the girl, Valjean must have got his hair cut by others. Who had done it in Montreuil? The housekeeper, most likely. And before that, in his youth, there had been a sister. Valjean had rarely mentioned her; perhaps he did not think much about her. But she must have stood, like Javert was standing now, bent over with the scissors, careful to cut the lock precisely, while Valjean closed his eyes obediently, tolerating her touch --  
  
Suddenly the thought of this unknown woman irritated him. Javert snapped the scissors shut, and the last lock fell to the ground. He then spent some moments combing through Valjean's hair, making sure it was neatly parted and free of tangles. Then he stepped back, removed the towel from Valjean's shoulders and put it on the bench nearby, and considered his handiwork. It did not look bad, if he were to say so himself. More than good enough for the Gillenormands.  
  
Remembering that he had forgotten to bring a mirror, he bid Valjean wait and went to fetch one. As he handed it over, their gazes met in the mirror for a second, and Javert could still see the melancholy in Valjean's eyes. He bit his tongue and waited as Valjean inspected himself. It took only a few seconds.  
  
"Thank you, Javert." Valjean's voice was gentle, though there still was a sadness to it. "You have done an excellent job."  
  
Javert could not have said what he had been waiting for, but this impersonal praise was not it, not when paired with the crease on Valjean's brow and his downcast eyes. There was something still that had to be done, and he did not know if he could do it, or if Valjean would let him, and yet he could not help but try.  
  
"Are you unhappy, Valjean?" he asked, very quietly.  
  
Only as he spoke the words did he realise again, with a faint sense of alarm, how vulnerable he had become, how very terribly Valjean could hurt him, even without meaning to. It would be enough for Valjean to say yes -- it would be enough to imply that Javert could never make him happy, or even content. That every day brought with it endless grief for the time that would not come back, and every night in Javert's arms a mere distraction from that grief rather than genuine pleasure.  
  
And if that was the case, what could Javert do about it? Nothing. If the thought pained him, even angered him, that was his burden to bear alone. He had no rights to Valjean's company, let alone his happiness or love. There was nothing he could justly blame Valjean for; even the thought that Valjean should owe him anything --  
  
"Unhappy?" Valjean said, so softly Javert almost did not hear it. "No. Or at least -- I don't think that's the right word."  
  
"What then?" Javert could not stop himself; his anxious frustration spilled forward in bursts. "You seem unhappy. For God's sake, you are reluctant to accept their invitation, and then you let me cut your hair -- and make me feel like you're humouring me -- while being so quiet and miserable about it all. You know how much it pains me when you're unhappy. You must know that! So what is it?"  
  
At first there was no answer. Valjean had lowered the mirror, and Javert could not see his face. He wanted to reach out and touch his shoulder, but thought better of it.  
  
At length he was rewarded for his patience when Valjean took a deep breath and said, "I feel guilty."  
  
"Guilty?" Javert was thoroughly perplexed.  
  
"You think I'm a good man, Javert. You tell me so all the time, not only in words. You have called me a saint, even, though I wish you wouldn't... Well. I am no saint, I am but a man, and a sinner at that, and yet I feel blessed because I have your love, and Cosette's, and Marius's. I have been given so much and I fear it's more than I deserve."  
  
"More than you --"  
  
"Do you know what went through my mind, Javert? When I first found out that my girl, my darling child, was in love? Do you think I was happy for her? Do you think I was relieved that she had found somebody to care for and to care for her, so she would not be alone when I died? No. I was angry, I was horrified, I was beyond grief. All I could think of was that I was no longer first in her affections. In my heart I was like the ogre in those tales old wives enjoy telling children -- a greedy, jealous wretch."  
  
Javert shuddered. Valjean rarely talked about his feelings so plainly, and there was a raw edge to his voice he could only remember having heard once or twice before. He did not try to interrupt anymore.  
  
"And Marius? I hated him, Javert. I thought, 'I could do nothing and leave him to die. That would be the easiest.' I hated him for having Cosette's heart. I wanted him to have no part in her happiness. I wanted it to be only the two of us, like before; I wanted us to live together, to be all that she needed. And then what? I would grow old and die, and she would be left in a world of which she knew but little, all on her own. That is what I had imagined, Javert, that is how selfish I was."  
  
Valjean's head dipped. His voice had grown low, and broken.  
  
"And now? She loves me still, and it is more than I deserve, and Marius kisses my hand and calls me a saint -- me, who wished him dead, for nothing more than loving my child! Can you believe that?"  
  
Javert was silent for a long moment, his throat too thick to speak. The anguish in Valjean's voice, an echo of all those lonely years, sliced right through his core and left his heart naked and aching. Before he could say anything, Valjean sighed.  
  
"Now you know the worst of me, Javert," he said, his voice infinitely tired. "You thought you did before, perhaps, but that was nothing compared to the way I wanted to sacrifice my own daughter's happiness, and to let a young man die for no greater crime than having dared to cast eyes on what I unjustly thought of as mine."  
  
Javert raised his hand. Very gently, he smoothed a couple of loose strands away from Valjean's brow, then stroked his cheek before letting his hand come to rest on Valjean's shoulder.  
  
"You are a man," he said, finally finding his voice again. "The best of men, but a man still. Who wouldn't have such thoughts as you had? And who else but you would have put those thoughts aside and risked their own lives to save those who threatened their happiness? As you saved me! No, you are the best man I know, but still a man. And I would not have it any other way. God! If only you knew, Valjean, what you are to me -- if you could but see yourself the way I see you..."  
  
He faltered, taking a deep breath.  
  
"I only wish," he muttered, squeezing Valjean's shoulder, "that I could soothe this loneliness in you.  That I could be of comfort to you..."  
  
Valjean spoke again then, softly. "Do you doubt that you are?"  
  
Javert's right hand was still resting on Valjean's shoulder, and now Valjean reached for it with his own, covering it.  
  
"If it weren't for you, Javert, I'd be as good as dead by now," Valjean said simply. "The loss of her would have killed me. You have saved my life. That's how it is."  
  
Javert let out a laugh then, a weak, trembling sound. "And _you_ say that to _me_."  
  
"I do." Now there was something wistful in Valjean's voice. "You do not think highly of yourself, even now, do you? But you are my friend, and even more than that, and it pains me that you think so little of yourself. You say you are not a good man -- though you are constantly striving to be one -- but you bring me more joy than I can say, and you take pleasure in my pleasure, too. You encourage me to see Cosette, for you aren't jealous, not selfish like me."  
  
Javert shook his head, though Valjean could not see it. "You can't call yourself selfish," he said incredulously. "It's ridiculous. Yes, I heard what you just said. What of it? You saved him. You risked your life -- you dragged him through the sewers, for Heaven's sake! You told me you were ready to marry her off and then disappear, with no thought for your own happiness. And now you compare yourself to me? That's..."  
  
He faltered, again lost for words. What should he say? He could not let Valjean think he cared any less for him than Valjean himself did for the girl, but he was also aware that he could not lay claim to Valjean, that given their past anything of the sort would be unforgivable.  
  
"My life now is nothing like yours then," he said at last, helplessly. "I don't understand much about love, and I have always had trouble understanding you. I know nothing of loving a child like you do. I only know that when you see her, it makes you happy, and when you come back here you do not make me feel the least unwelcome for it -- the opposite, rather. And you cannot claim to be selfish, not when you always risk your own happiness for the sake of other people's! But you feared losing her. I do not fear losing you. Do you see now?"       
  
In the silence that fell, he felt that this was what it came down to: Valjean's ability to understand, and Javert's ability to make him understand. For so many days and so many nights, he had tried to show him, tried to make him see and feel that his happiness was not only a gift to him but to Javert as well. And if Valjean still could not see that? He waited.  
  
 At length Valjean sighed again, softly. "I am a fool," he said, but his voice was warm now, the despair gone. "And you are far too good to me."  
  
Javert huffed, half-exasperated, half-relieved. "I've had enough nonsense tonight. Stop it."  
  
Throwing caution to the wind, he bent down, pressing a kiss to the top of Valjean's head, breathing in the scent of his hair.  
  
"And I forgot," he whispered into Valjean's ear, "that they have not had children yet. I dread the day when that happens. You will become obsessed with the creatures, I know, and nobody else will be able to compete for your attention. I shall have to resort to the most devious of means to keep you to myself at least a little, lest I go mad with rage."  
  
The jest was fairly awkward, but it was worth it to hear the sound Valjean let out, a startled huff of laughter, and it was even more worth it to have Valjean lean against him, pressing his hand. They stayed silent for a moment. Javert kissed his temple and exhaled.  
  
"It is getting late," Valjean said at last, pressing his hand again.  
  
To anyone else, it would have seemed like a mere observation, but Javert knew it for the invitation it was. He shivered, a thrill of anticipation racing down his spine. Yet he did not move, but stayed still, bent over, his cheek against Valjean's, Valjean's hand covering his own, unwilling to be the one to break the moment.  
  
In the end, it was Valjean who turned his head and let their mouths meet, and it was Valjean who rose to his feet and pulled Javert to him, so that they were standing there, in the shadows of the large tree, arms around each other and bodies pressed close, and then they were kissing, and kissing, and kissing again, until Javert wondered if it was possible to feel such relief one could die from it.  
  
At last Valjean muttered, half-smiling against Javert's mouth, "Let's go inside."  
  
He turned back to the small house, their hands still laced together, and Javert followed, his immense relief now giving way to desire.  
  
As soon as the door closed behind them he pulled Valjean to him, let his hands roam all over that strong back and into that soft hair, nosed at his neck, breathed in his scent, covering Valjean's mouth and cheeks with kisses, striving to loosen his cravat at the same time, until Valjean tore away and said, fondly, "Let me."  
  
Reluctantly, Javert let him go, enough for Valjean to untie both their cravats and unbutton their waistcoats and shirts. Then, greed roaring its head within him, he pushed Valjean's clothing off his shoulders, walking him backwards to the bed until they fell onto it, flushed and smiling, Valjean on his back and Javert straddling him.  
  
He shed his own garments with impatience and then got to work on Valjean's trousers, pausing to reverently palm the outline of Valjean's growing hardness through the fabric. Valjean let out a moan at that -- a quiet, stifled sound -- and raised his hips, and Javert pulled himself together enough to slide the trousers off. Then he paused again to take in the sight before him, of Valjean splayed on his back, relaxed and powerful like a lion at rest, mouth wet and red from Javert's kisses, eyes full of affection and trust.  
  
Javert's cock gave a twitch of longing. He rubbed at it, almost absently, unable to take his eyes off Valjean, his heart beating hard and fast.  
  
"You're so," he murmured, unable to find a word that said it all. "You're so very..."  
  
The air in the room was warm. In the dim evening light there was a small sheen of sweat visible in the dip of Valjean's collarbone, and Javert bent to lick at it, to kiss his neck, Valjean tilting his head back to allow him access. Javert licked his way up his chin until their mouths met again in a kiss that was just as much a shared sigh.  
  
Valjean's hand curled around his neck when he pulled away, and Javert stayed like that for a moment, their lips barely touching, their breath hot against each other's faces. Valjean touched his cheek with his free hand, ran his forefinger down Javert's cheek almost wonderingly, and Javert closed his eyes against the sheer emotion welling up inside him -- he should be used to it by now, but he knew he never would be.  
  
As he kissed his way downwards again, smoothing his hands over Valjean's broad shoulders, nosing at the curly hair on his chest, he thought of Valjean's sadness earlier, the pained tone of shame in his voice as he had confessed to his fears. He thought of his own hands in Valjean's hair, the pair of scissors, the amount of trust Valjean had placed in him and kept placing in him. He thought of how, if things had been different, he still would have given anything to ease Valjean's loneliness -- walking with him in the Luxembourg gardens, visiting him on Sundays and coming with him to Mass, all the while curbing his own desire and keeping it in check, counting himself lucky to be able to take away only a little of Valjean's suffering, to repay only a fraction of what he owed Valjean.  
  
But by a whim of Fortune, he had been granted all those things and far more, while still indulging the fire within him. And this, he thought as he circled Valjean's navel with his tongue, hands splayed on his hips, was the greatest wonder of them all: that he could please Valjean with his body as well as with his friendship; that his desire could have a purpose, be shared; that Valjean would want it, want him. Valjean, who deserved all the pleasure Javert was capable of giving and more besides -- Valjean, who had said he had never wanted anyone before Javert.  
  
But the latter was too precious a thing to dwell on, too overwhelming to contemplate: the fact that he, Javert, was Jean Valjean's first and only, not only in his bed but in his imagination also. The memory of that confession awed him. He had stored it away deep inside, only occasionally allowing himself to revisit its blinding power, carefully unfolding and contemplating it like the most precious of gemstones. Every time the realisation was almost too much for him to bear, and he had to stow it away again, lest excessive exposure should somehow dull this miracle and render it commonplace, like the colours of a a fine tapestry faded in the sunlight.  
  
Now he made himself consider how he would have felt, learning that others had known Valjean this way before him. The immediate burst of outrage inside him was so strong he had to pause and take a deep breath, and then smile sardonically at himself. Not jealous, indeed! Probably, he reflected as he resumed his task, it was only this that kept him from envying the girl, the knowledge that hers was a love so different from his, that neither of them could replace the other in Valjean's life. And wasn't Valjean learning this himself, now that she was married and yet loved him still?  
  
He mouthed along Valjean's stomach, his tongue tracing the trail of hair downwards from his navel. Valjean spread his thighs to make room for him, and Javert took full advantage, licking around the base of his cock, carefully tonguing his balls, savouring every shudder he managed to draw from Valjean this way, every trembling tension of muscle. He licked up the hard length of his erection, kissed away the wetness on the head. Then he pulled away, somewhat reluctantly, but Valjean's breathless sound of choked disappointment made it worthwhile.  
  
Leaning over to the nightstand, he sought Valjean's eyes as he took out the jar of oil. At the almost imperceptible nod he moved back between his legs, ran his hands along Valjean's strong thighs to gently spread them further, and coated his fingers.  
  
Feeling his way, the thought again came to him that he now had a chance to prove himself, to show Valjean how careful he was of him, how afraid of harming him in any way, even if this, unlike the haircut, was nothing new between them at this point. He took his time, circling the ring of muscle with light touches before finally slipping in one finger, not moving it until Valjean exhaled, relaxing, opening up to his touch.  
  
Javert kissed his hipbone, mouthing his name against his skin. He worked Valjean open as slowly as he could, to avoid hurting him and also because he enjoyed it in itself -- the heat of Valjean's body, the soft sighs he was making, the reassuring weight of his hand carding through Javert's hair. His cock lay flushed and hard against his belly, and Javert bent to kiss that as well, licking along the shaft until Valjean's sighs turned into moans, a sound that set Javert's insides on fire.  
  
At last he shifted, arranging himself so that their bodies were flush together, his cock slick, hard and aching with need as he steered it into position. He looked up, again seeking Valjean's eyes with his own, waiting for that small nod, that tiny tug of his lips -- and then he pushed into him, as slowly and gently as he had done anything tonight, bracing himself on his arms so as not to weigh Valjean down, though he knew it was hardly necessary. Valjean's hand came to rest against his cheek, and Javert closed his eyes, overwhelmed once more. "Valjean," he whispered, "oh God, Valjean," and there were other things he meant to say but they were too wondrous and important to be ruined by his lack of eloquence.    
  
He turned his face into Valjean's palm and kissed it. Then he shifted again, pushing further inside Valjean, and sought his mouth, hungry now, driven by that inexorable need within him, the need to feel Valjean around him, to hold and be held, to cherish and be close. He moaned, helpless in the face of this desire, as Valjean's body gave way and relaxed, allowing Javert to sink in to the hilt.  
  
"God," he groaned, as always taken aback by how good it felt, this closeness and heat, unparalleled by anything except having their current position reversed. And at the thought of _that_ the flame inside him leapt high, and he had to bury his groan against Valjean's mouth as he started to move in earnest, pulling out a little before pushing back in, softly, slowly, wanting to let him adjust.  
  
"Is this good?" he murmured, pressing kisses to the corner of Valjean's mouth, his temple, his hair. "Valjean, do you like it?"  
  
Valjean cradled his face in his hands, stroked his cheeks with his thumbs, his eyes dark and warm as they looked into Javert's, as he brought their mouths together in another kiss that left them both panting against each other's lips. But he said nothing, only closed his eyes, his mouth falling open as Javert worked a hand between them and found his swollen flesh, stroking it as well as the awkward angle would permit.  
  
He thrust again, harder now, wanting to hear it out loud -- a moan, an exclamation, any vocal indication of Valjean's pleasure. He was rarely loud in bed, unlike Javert, who could always be trusted to groan and bellow and babble like a fool, but the sounds he did make were all the sweeter for it, and Javert wanted them all.  
  
"Valjean," he panted, and Valjean threw his head back, allowing more room for Javert's kisses, eager and open-mouthed, seeking to cover every bit of exposed skin. "Valjean," almost a sob now, as he thrust ever faster, driving their bodies together, and Valjean's thighs clenched around his waist. "Valjean --" as his thumb made its way to the head of Valjean's cock and slid over it, gently, in time with his thrusts.  
  
And then, finally, there was Valjean's answering moan of his name, and at that sound Javert fell apart, crying out as pleasure pulsated through him and he spent himself in helpless jerks, collapsing against Valjean's chest and burying his face in his neck.  
  
He lay there for some moments, trying to gather his wits. Valjean's cock was still hard, trapped between their bodies, and Javert carefully eased his hand free as he contemplated what to do next. The quickest thing, the most selfless thing, would be to put his mouth or his hand on Valjean and to pleasure him that way. But Javert found that even now, slumped and panting, he was not satisfied: greedy though it might be, he still craved the rhythm, the drive, the coupling of their bodies, craved Valjean's closeness with an intensity that almost frightened him.  
  
He kissed Valjean again, breathing deep and fast against his mouth. Valjean stroked his cheek, and Javert leaned into the caress, kissing his palm; then, seeking Valjean's eyes, he drew two fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them, sucked with enthusiasm until Valjean's eyes, already dark with passion, darkened further. He pulled his fingers out, slowly, and Javert caught his hand, bringing it behind himself to rest against the small of his back.  
  
Valjean's wet fingers gently stroked along his cleft, making him shudder and arch his back, nerves alight once again. With a final kiss to Valjean's cheek, he pulled out, rolled over onto his back, and parted his legs.  
  
It took only a moment for Valjean to follow him, their bodies aligned anew, skin to hot skin as Valjean's fingers, wet with saliva and oil from the little jar on the nightstand, opened him up -- it did not take long, Javert's body still heavy-limbed and pliant. He felt himself going soft around those fingers, welcoming the intrusion; his hips jerked upwards as he tried to take more, impatient for Valjean's pleasure, which he himself had postponed.  
  
"Please," he breathed. His cock, lying wet against his thigh, was implausibly beginning to stir again as he rocked against Valjean's fingers. "Now, please, Valjean..."  
  
Valjean stilled for a moment. Then, mirroring Javert's movements from earlier, he shifted into place, his cock, hard and straining, pushing against Javert's hole. "Now," Javert said again, breathlessly, spreading his thighs even further, raising his hips. In response, Valjean leaned down to kiss him, and then he slid into him, the stretch almost unbearably sweet, and Javert moaned aloud with the delight of being joined with him once more.  
  
He fumbled for Valjean's hand and found it. Their fingers threaded together as Valjean thrust back in, harder now, his mouth hot and panting against Javert's, his cock large and rock-hard inside Javert's body, filling him so completely the rest of the world was drowned out and muted in that raw, sensual burn.  
  
Javert wrapped his legs around him, keeping him in place as Valjean pulled out of him and pushed back in, hard, slowly at first and then with a rhythm that grew more and more insistent, and Javert revelled in Valjean's loss of control, his incapability of holding back -- "Harder," he gasped, and Valjean let out a sound that was almost desperate, and kissed him with lips and tongue and teeth, and complied.  
  
There was nothing slow and soft about it now, Valjean thrusting frantically and Javert rising to meet him, making noises of encouragement that he himself barely registered between the pangs of pleasure going through his body. But it was just as sweet as earlier, just as reassuring, and when Valjean froze and then trembled, before collapsing broken and panting on top of him, Javert trembled too, and kept his arms about him, and held on.  
  
Neither of them moved. The room was shadowy with twilight, a tang of their lovemaking in the sweet April air that held in it the promise of summers yet to come. Valjean, still lying on top of him with his face pressed against Javert's neck, sighed his name, once. Some kind of bird was singing outside the window -- Javert would not ruin the moment by asking which.  
  
He ran his hand through Valjean's hair, shorter now but still so soft. "I would do it again," he muttered into Valjean's ear. "Cut your hair. Anything. You need only ask."  
  
Valjean stirred again, not to move away, but to raise himself up enough to look into Javert's eyes. Whatever he saw there made him lift his free hand and stroke Javert's cheek, as he had done earlier. Then he settled back down, burying his face in Javert's hair.  
  
Javert closed his eyes. A great peace filled him. He caressed Valjean's neck, breathed in time with his breath, stunned and thankful yet again at the miracle that had turned his life around and sent him here, to this evening and this bed -- vulnerable, and gladly so. 


End file.
